


Antworten

by orphan_account



Category: The Man in the High Castle (TV)
Genre: Gen, Interrogation, Spoilers, Supposition based on canon context, Vague Repressed Parental Instincts, blatant disregard of set design
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-06
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-05-05 05:05:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5362445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Smith protects two things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Antworten

**Author's Note:**

> _Antworten_ : Answers

_… the sloop was located at 2300 hours and boarded within thirty minutes. All combatants executed and cargo taken for processing.One civilian claiming German citizenship and participation in an act of sanctioned espionage… ___

John reads the report by the light of the single lamp hung from the low ceiling. The room is small, concrete with steel furnishings and thick walls. It’s an embarrassment, the retrieval operation. Much too long, completely unacceptable. There will be staffing changes, once this is dealt with. The report itself provides him with little actual information and is, as always, frustratingly obtuse. Apparently the man requested Obergruppenfuhrer Smith by name, refused inspection, and was summarily detained for interrogation and his belongings confiscated. He was flown to New York four hours ago after their offices were informed. 

Well, really since he had contacted the San Francisco offices until they had been cowed into approving a transfer. But officially it was his secretary. 

It has been three days since the incident. Departmental communication must be overhauled. 

John leans back and taps his fingers on the small photograph staring blandly at him from the file. Technically the mission was a success, the tape is intact on its way to Berlin. The members of the resistance will be detained when and where they see fit. If not clean operation, then at least organized. 

Except for Joe Blake. 

John stares down the files for a moment longer. His wife will have dinner ready in half an hour, probably pork chops. The girls will be home from school and Thomas will be coughing and insisting nothing is wrong with puzzlement and the gentle beginnings of worry. This could be done and finished and he could go back to the relative peace his other life. 

He clears his throat and calls to the orderly. The little man opens the door a few inches, peering through like he’s afraid something will explode. John supposes he has reason. 

“Bring him in.” 

He nods even as he ducks from the door and hurries away. A moment passes, then the sound of heavy boots thudding down the hall. 

The door grinds open and they haul him in, drag him to the chair opposite and push him down, a gloved hand gripping each shoulder. He smells like sweat and oil and piss. John wonders if it is his own. One of the men cuffs his hands to the table while the other stands back a step, rifle swung down with his index finger resting on the trigger guard. Joe won’t meet his eye, slumped with his gaze somewhere in the middle of the table’s cold surface. 

“Leave.” 

They hesitate. Interrogations of citizens of the Reich must be monitored by a third party to ensure proper procedure. John looks up at them, eyebrows raised. There is a pause, and they mumble a “yes, Obergruppenfuhrer” and shuffle out with what decorum they can muster. 

There is a moment of silence. John leans forward, elbows resting on the cold metal and fingers steepled. Joe doesn’t move. 

“What happened in San Francisco Joe?” 

He doesn't look up, not right away, but when he does his face is unnaturally smooth and neutral. His left eye is swollen and yellow around the deep blue. Something unreadable flickers, a twitch of the lids, almost a flinch, but then everything is smooth again and he starts to speak. Starts, but rasps and chokes down a cough. He takes a shuddering breath and starts again. 

“I think you already know Obergruppenfuhrer.” 

He still won't meet his eyes, not directly. Joe's staring somewhere past his left shoulder. For the first time since they relayed the news John is angry. He’d been frustrated, perhaps disappointed, irritated and very tired, but not like this. He places his hands flat on the table and stands slowly, leaning forward. The lamp casts his shadow over the opposite side of the room. 

“I, Joe, have had a very, _very_ long week. You are not my priority and yet here you are so I will ask you again.” 

__He pushes into Joe's space, and he's finally meeting his eyes, defiant and pained and just a little scared. He shifts back in his chair, favoring his left shoulder. His mouth presses down at the corners but he holds his gaze._ _

___“What happened in San Francisco." ____ _

___He doesn’t speak right away. Joe shifts again, looks away and swallows._ _ _

___“The Yakuza. Mostly the girl.”_ _ _

___He glances back up._ _ _

___“They were going to kill me. For the tape. She got me out, put me on the boat. They’ll be on their way to Mexico by now.”_ _ _

___John settles back down in the chair, fingers idly flicking through the corners of the files. They know this all, obviously. Still._ _ _

___“And who is they?”_ _ _

___“The resistance. Lemuel Washington, another woman. I don’t know her name. Blonde. She ran a flower shop. Juliana too. And her boyfriend.” He shifts in his chair, twists the chain in his hands, head bowed. He looks oddly young and John remembers that he is. Something settles in his his gut and he sits back. It feels like guilt. He swallows it._ _ _

___“I wanted to stay. With them. With her.” It’s a whisper and he looks back up, brow furrowed and lips tight, going white at the edges. “I think I might have, had things been different.”_ _ _

___Well. Fuck. The guilt is gone and something begins to burn. He takes a measured breath._ _ _

___“That is treason Joe. You know that.”_ _ _

___“Yes.”_ _ _

___“Your… woman and her child will be sent to a camp for collusion, as well as any friends, their immediate families. You will be interrogated and then you will be shot as an example and your body will be burned.”_ _ _

___“Yes.”_ _ _

___It is weak and quiet and submissive and John feels the urge rise to hit him, knock his head against the brickwork until he understands, until he reacts with something other than this infuriating acceptance. He takes a deep breath. Counts to ten, then a hundred, breathes again. It does nothing. He rises abruptly and treads around the table, ignores the clatter of his chair as it tips and falls behind him onto the floor. He stops just short of the other man, looms above him, takes his hair in his fist and jerks his head up, twists that dirty oily shirt in his other. Joe muffles a groan, blood wets John’s fingers as he glares, inches away. He can see the tremors, the fear, the way his eyelashes twitch when he blinks away pain tears._ _ _

___“I do not think you do Joe.” It comes out as a hiss through his teeth, soft and deadly. There is blood matting Joe’s hair and a drop begins to trickle down his temple. For a moment John feels sick and shoves his head away and turns, paces to the fallen chair and rights it. He sits down, folds his arms, pins the other man under his stare like an insect under a magnifying glass._ _ _

___Silence, except for Joe’s breathing._ _ _

___“Do you have anything to say or do you insist on sentencing yourself.”_ _ _

___There is another long moment. The porkchops will be done by now, cooling on the stove. She won’t be happy, serving the children with an empty spot at the table. Thomas will report his day at school, she will admonish his pride but really feel proud herself. One year at most. Fuck. He needs to find another doctor, someone discreet. Maybe in San Francisco, anonymously. He is so tired. It reaches his bones._ _ _

___“For whatever it’s worth I’m sorry.” It’s barely a murmur. John snaps back to the present and glares._ _ _

___“You are _sorry ___? That’s it? Do you think _sorry ___even begins to cover what you have done, what you would have done? To your country, to its future, your Fuhrer?” He’s shouting now, and he doesn’t care. The walls are thick after all. He realizes he never turned on the recording tapes. He wonders absently now if he did so intentionally. He supposes it doesn’t matter. Joe is looking at him._ _ _

_____“I don’t follow the Fuhrer’s orders, I follow yours. Sir. I think you know that, by now at least. If you’re adding up my sins you might include that.” The last is spat out and John resists the urge to rub his temples. Shit. Fucking shit._ _ _ _ _

_____“I was going to come back, once we landed in Baja for fuel-”_ _ _ _ _

_____“That does not matter and you know it.”_ _ _ _ _

_____“May I ask a question?”_ _ _ _ _

_____John blinks. Apparently that is permission because Joe continues._ _ _ _ _

_____“Why am I still alive?”_ _ _ _ _

_____Well then. John blinks again, fumbles, lets out a flat “What?”_ _ _ _ _

_____Joe shifts again, leans over the table._ _ _ _ _

_____“Why am I still alive after Canyon City and the corpse I helped hide and the men I’ve killed, after you office, after watching the tape? I have committed enough treasonous acts to be shot weeks ago before fucking San Francisco. So why,” he digs at his eyes with his palms and his shoulders slump, “why haven’t you killed me yet?”_ _ _ _ _

_____John knows, down where he keeps the good things from the blood and pain and duty, but he finds he doesn’t know what to say. Or really he does, but not how._ _ _ _ _

_____“Why do you think?”_ _ _ _ _

_____Joe’s head snaps up, and his face is twisted in fury and John sees the boy he met, eyes bright and hand itching to pull the trigger._ _ _ _ _

_____“Don’t. Not now. I’m too tired for your mysterious orders and covert operations and all you vague bullshit just-” and he inhales too sharply, winces, stills, closes his eyes. Brings one hand to his forehead and covers them._ _ _ _ _

_____“Just tell me. Please.”_ _ _ _ _

_____Neither of them move, and John looks at the blue eyes and the cheekbones and he regrets. He finally stands, and Joe’s head snaps up._ _ _ _ _

_____“There are two kinds of people I protect Joe. Those loyal to me, and family.” He leans over the table again, and this time Joe does not shrink away._ _ _ _ _

_____“You, as it happens, are both.”_ _ _ _ _

_____John turns to leave before he can see his reaction. He sweeps the files with one hand into his case and reaches the door before hesitating, doesn’t turn around, can’t deal with whatever is on Joe’s face._ _ _ _ _

_____“You’ll stay here tonight. A car will arrive tomorrow morning. Do not speak to anyone.”_ _ _ _ _

_____He tugs the door open with a grating squeal and steps into the hallway._ _ _ _ _

_____Fuck. Fuck fuck _fuck ___._ _ _ _ _

______He hopes they saved a porkchop._ _ _ _ _ _

**Author's Note:**

> Welp. I've taken the dive into fanfiction, who'd have though it would be this. Concrit is extremely welcome to the point of begging.


End file.
